


Its the Best Day Of the Year

by indevan



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Sex, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 13:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21339094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: In which Linhardt forgot his own birthday, but Caspar sure didn't
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 12
Kudos: 88





	Its the Best Day Of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> it's technically the 7th and, anyway, since the 6th is MY birthday, i'm counting this as a present to me lol

Seven months wasn’t a terribly long time in the grand scheme of things. If five years could pass by in the blink of an eye (several blinks if you were Linhardt), then seven months was truly nothing.

But it was an eventful seven months.

The war ended, but everything kept happening. Upcoming clashes with Those That Slither in the Dark. Triumphant returns to opera houses. Embroidered flowers. Ferdinand. It was all very interesting, Linhardt was sure, if he truly was invested in any of it. He and Caspar had their own agenda, which was no agenda at all.

It was freeing, no longer being beholden to their noble houses. Caspar, though he had no crest and no title awaiting him, still felt the yoke of his brother and father’s roles in the Empire. Linhardt knew he carried it like an albatross around his neck, or however that went. But now he needn’t worry. Now, he could do whatever he wanted without worrying about earning his brother’s scorn or his father’s disapproval. He was Caspar Von Bergliez in name only and hardly even that. Linhardt, meanwhile, felt zero remorse in renouncing his home. His father was always an insufferable bore who demanded far too much from him, crest and all, and returning from the war simply to tell him what he thought of him filled him with great satisfaction.

The plan was to have no plan, at least for a year or so. Having no duties, not having to worry about their impending deaths, it was nice. More than once during the war, Linhardt had been jolted awake by a nightmare of Caspar falling in battle. Him rushing in,his gauntlets flashing silver in the midday sun, only for a Kingdom soldier to cut him down with a lance. In these nightmares, Linhardt would try to heal him, pressing his hands into the gaping wound, not even caring about the blood coating them, but it always ended the same. He could only watch helplessly as the light drained from Caspar’s eyes. When he awoke, he would reach across the bed to check that he was still breathing. Linhardt would feel his chest rise and fall against his fingertips until the sound of it lulled him back to sleep. He never shared these nightmares with Caspar, because he knew that his lover would somehow take it as a challenge against his dream self and be even more reckless in whatever skirmish they ended up in.

With the war’s conclusion and the Immaculate One’s (or Rhea--semantics, really) death, the nightmares stopped plaguing him. For that, Linhardt was especially grateful. There were few things more annoying than horrific nightmares of the person you loved most in the world being killed in front of you ruining a good nap.

A good nap was what he had been enjoying until now. He loathed waking up on his own when he didn’t want to, nearly as much as he loathed being woken up by someone. Caspar had gone into town, so if he had to be prematurely awakened, he figured it would be by him blundering into their small room at the local inn. That he had woken up on his own before he had his fill of sleep was annoying. Linhardt shifted under the pile of blankets heaped onto the bed and curled back down, wanting to get back to his nap. In his travels with Caspar, he had been more or less forced to keep a semi-regular sleep schedule. Caspar didn’t outright disrupt it, but when he admitted to feeling alone when Linhardt would sleep for days on end, he had felt bad enough to try and stay awake. Maybe that was why he had woken up. His rhythms were all out of sync. Even back in his academy days at the monastery, when he was awake, he tended not to exert more energy than the walk to the library or classroom from his dorm. Spending his days traveling--and mostly on foot at that--was not something he was used to. Or, at least, not something he intended to keep doing after the war.

The stay in the inn was nice, though. Somewhere down the line, they would have to find work or at least be more frugal with their spending. The downside of leaving their noble houses meant no longer having access to their families’ resources and money. He figured Caspar could make it as a fairly decent mercenary, but he had no idea what he would do. The concept of work was as disgusting as being woken up from his nap for no good reason. But that was a problem for Future Linhardt and Present Linhardt was simply enjoying the luxury of a room that had a soft bed, plenty of blankets, and a nice hearth.

Keen to take full advantage of this bed, Linhardt snuggled once more beneath the blankets, intent to fall asleep again. At that moment, he heard a key turn and the door opened shortly after. It was flown open with such gusto that it slammed into the wall with a resounding  _ thud. _ Caspar, eyes going momentarily wide, turned to examine the wall and the door. Linhardt noticed that he did this all one-handed, the other hand being occupied in holding a small, white box. He probably thought Linhardt was still asleep, so he took this opportunity to survey Caspar. It was nice seeing him out of armor, even if he was bundled up for the cold. Luckily, he knew him so well that he could imagine him without it even before he placed the box down to undress.

From his cocoon, Linhardt watched him pull off his hat and gloves, unwind his scarf from his neck, and strip off his coat. All of the outerwear was heaped onto a chair. Now he was clad only in a linen shirt that strained his broad shoulders and chest and a pair of trousers that, now no longer covered by the length of his wool coat, showcased his perfectly pert and round backside. Linhardt wasn’t certain the exact moment he fell for Caspar (somewhere along the line of their long and wild run as best friends), but he knew he had him. Just the sight of him, not even naked, made heat pool low in his belly. The way he was initially oblivious when Linhardt first asked him to his room. He remembered that first time vividly. He had asked Caspar to strip for him and he had seen him, candlelight flickering over the segments of his stomach, the light reflecting in his searingly blue eyes--and he had thought he was beautiful. Now that obliviousness had faded into a hunger whenever they were alone--and sometimes when they weren’t. Linhardt hadn’t pondered too deeply into his own kinks at the time, but he sure had felt a rush of adrenaline and lust when Caspar slipped his hand into his trousers at a crowded bar. The thrill of having a secret anyone could find out if everyone else wasn’t so wrapped up in themselves. Though they had been involved prior to the war’s end, the past seven months had seen them able to truly and fully explore one another with the time to do so.

Linhardt had  _ thought _ he’d known Caspar well but knowing him as his best friend and knowing him as his lover were very different, as he took great joy in discovering. It was like a very rewarding research experiment.

“Lin, you awake?”

Now, he had a choice. He could pretend to still be asleep, but that was the less fun option. He stirred beneath his mound of blankets.

“I am.”

“Did I wake you?”

Again, a choice. He could lie and have Caspar make it up to him or he could be honest.

“No, I woke up a little while ago.”

Caspar didn’t like when he lied anyhow and, goddess preserve him, some of his bald-faced decency was rubbing off on him.

“Good. Sit up. I have a surprise for you.”

He suspected that it had something to do with that box. It was quite small and the lid was closed.

“What is it?” Linhardt sat up a bit, struggling only slightly beneath his blankets. The pile of duvets was perfect a moment ago, but now they were inhibiting his movement.

Caspar picked the box off of the small, round table near the chair heaped with clothes and presented it with a flourish.

“Happy birthday!”

Linhardt stared blankly at him for a moment. “What?”

Undeterred, Caspar passed him the box. He crawled up on the bed, and Linhardt was momentarily distracted enough to wonder if he should chastise him for still having his boots on. He shook his head and regarded the box.

“It’s not my birthday,” he said.

Linhardt lifted the lid of the box and was confronted with a small, circular cake. The smell of frosting wafted towards his nose, sweet and vanilla, and he frowned. Someone had deftly iced “Happy Birthday Linheart” onto the surface in dark green and he knew that it wasn’t done by Caspar. The piping was too neat and, anyway, as helpless as Caspar was during his studies, he had learned how to write Linhardt’s name along with his own.

“And they spelled my name wrong.”

“What?” Caspar’s face fell. “Ugh, I should have spelled it out, but I thought they got it…”

“It’s fine. And anyway, it isn’t my birthday.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s…” Linhardt trailed off and frowned.

Actually...it was seven months since the war ended. Or maybe not--it had ended at the end of Great Tree Moon and now it was the  _ beginning _ of Red Wolf Moon. So it wasn’t actually seven months  _ yet, _ despite what Linhardt had been thinking. And the beginning of the Red Wolf Moon meant--

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’” Caspar laughed. “You forgot your own birthday.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

He felt the back of his neck flush in embarrassment and hoped that it wouldn’t spread to his face. With so much travel and not having a plan or agenda, he simply lost track of the time. He was at once thinking it wasn’t near his birthday while also thinking the war ended earlier than it did. It was  _ embarrassing. _ What wasn’t embarrassing, though, was that Caspar had remembered it and bought him a cake. It was  _ romantic,  _ and Linhardt found himself weak for it. This was what being in love was like. He found himself far less bothered by it than he should have been. Caspar was a lot to handle sometimes, but he didn’t mind handling him.

“Are there any plates for the cake?”

Caspar blinks his eyes once and then looked askance. “Uh…”

“What about forks?”

“Um.”

That was to be expected. Linhardt looked down at his incorrectly iced name and gave a slight smile.

“Well, the thought is appreciated nonetheless. We can go downstairs and ask the owner for utensils.”

Caspar gave a pout, which was confusing. Linhardt had solved his problem in forgetting silverware, so why was he pouting?

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to give you the second part of your present after cake, but now it’ll have to wait.”

Linhardt arched a brow. “Second part?”

He had only seen the one package when Caspar had come in.

“Uh-huh.”

He was about to ask him what he meant, until he noticed that the expression on his face had changed.

_ Oh. _

“We can save the cake for later,” he said.

“Okay, good.”

Caspar plucked the box out of his hands to return it to the table and, this time, actually fussed with his boots to get them off before returning to bed. He leaned in for a kiss and Linhardt gave it to him, cupping Caspar’s face with both hands as he did. There was something extremely comforting about kissing Caspar. Something like coming home.

He brought his hands down his neck to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

“What do you want for your birthday?” Caspar asked, breath hot against Linhardt’s mouth.

“You always let me order you around.”

In any other entanglement he had found himself in, Linhardt preferred to lie there and let the other person do all the work, but not with Caspar. He knew his lover got off on being told what to do and always eagerly followed Linhardt’s lead.

“Yeah, so?”

He smiled and gave him another kiss. “I want you to ride me.”

“Front or back?”

Caspar was straddling him already, which was a fine enough view on its own.

“Front, if you’re comfortable.”

He always checked because, as much as Caspar got off on being ordered around, Linhardt never wanted to make him uncomfortable. Caspar spoke to him sometimes about wanting to crawl out of his skin, but he had been happier lately. He wondered if he was partially to blame, but he didn’t want to give himself too much credit.

“I am.”

“Good. I wanted to look at you.”

“You could do that from behind.”

Linhardt tucked some hair behind his ear. “That requires more gymnastics than my body is capable of doing.”

“Hot.”

Caspar grinned and gave a wink and, for that brief moment, Linhardt wished that he was still as oblivious as he used to be. Linhardt rolled his eyes.

“Get undressed.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. Caspar stripped out of his clothes quickly, without any coyness or teasing. He was always like that, though, to the point. They  _ could _ and often  _ did _ have extended foreplay but more often than not, they just got down to it. Regardless of speed, watching each bit of flesh on Caspar’s body be revealed never got any less exciting. He watched him undo the buckles of his binding (a garment Linhardt often reminded him to remove when he wore it for far too long just as Caspar reminded him to eat--equal trade-offs).

“You’re still dressed.”

“You distracted me.” Linhardt reached up to fuss with a strand of his hair. “I suppose you’ll have to undress me.”

He half-expected Caspar to dive towards him and rip off his clothes. He wasn’t wearing many: just whatever lowermost layers he could manage in the cold weather that were comfortable enough to nap in. He was surprised, then, when Caspar began inching his shirt up little by little and kissing each bit of skin he uncovered. When the garment was up near Linhardt’s throat, he lifted his arms for it to be fully removed. His pants bore no belt, only laces, but Caspar took his time there, too. He hesitated, even, over the single knot, to press a kiss against the rising bulge in Linhardt’s pants.

He felt a tingle up his spine and bit his lower lip to avoid a moan.

“I barely even touched you and you’re already getting hard.”

“Yes, well, pricks can be like that sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He said it cheekily, though, so Linhardt figured he was having a go at himself. Caspar finally unlaced his trousers and tugged them down to Linhardt’s knees. He shuffled a bit to make it easier. This was the part about sex that romance texts (that he staunchly  _ didn’t _ read unless they  _ accidentally _ got mixed in with his research books) left out. All of the awkward negotiating of space. Once, before everyone went their separate ways, they had had a threesome with Ashe that a hot and heavy tangle of limbs more than anything else.

“There he is.”

Caspar kissed the head of Linhardt’s cock, sticking his tongue out to catch a bit of the precum that was beginning to drip from it.

“Please don’t refer to it in such a way.”

“But he’s so happy to see me!”

Linhardt shifted against the pillows of the bed. “Could you--?”

“Could I?” Caspar cocked his head to the side, some of the longer bits of his hair falling down with it. “Is it an order, Lin?”

He worked his groin against Linhardt’s thigh, letting out a little moan of pleasure from the friction of it.

Linhardt reached down to bring Caspar’s face back to his so he could kiss him. “Yes. Get on with it.”

Neither of them were particularly adept at dirty talk. Linhardt tried but it often sounded too weird since his mind worked in strange ways--as some might say. Caspar tried too hard and came out with things that made little sense solely because they were too outlandishly filthy to actually be possible.

Caspar eased himself on, letting his head fall back as he did.

“You always feel so good,” he said. “It’s like all my holes were made for you or somethin’.”

Linhardt let the moan that burbled up in his throat turn into a sigh. “Caspar, we’ve talked about this. That’s not sexy. It’s just weird.”

“Sorry. But you do feel good…”

Watching Caspar as he rode him was always good. He liked any position with him, but this was his favorite. Lying back like this getting a view of all of him. Caspar worked his hips up and down, wetting his lips with the tip of his pink tongue as he did. His hands moved over his own body. They strayed near his crotch, two fingers curling in the coarse blue hair there, before reaching down to grip Linhardt’s own hips.

“No...here.”

Linhardt reached down to grab Caspar’s hands. He laced his fingers through his and held on. He felt him tense as he rode him, fingers pressing against the back of Linhardt’s hands. Caspar arched his back, inadvertently pulling Linhardt up towards him. He closed his mouth over Caspar’s just as he was about to let out a moan, almost swallowing the sound as he whimpered in his mouth instead.

Caspar rocked against him, thighs tightening around Linhardt’s.

“I’m close,” he breathed out, breaking the kiss as he did. “Goddess, Lin. I’m--”

His words dissolved into a groan as he let his head fall back once more. Linhardt moved his own hips to try and catch his rhythm, finding it just as Caspar’s body locked up and his thighs clenched him even tighter.

He came in a shuddering wave, clinging to Linhardt as he did.

“Are you alright?”

Caspar nodded even though he was bonelessly slumped against him.

“Yeah, I’m great. You can finish. I like it when you finish inside.”

It was another paltry attempt at dirty talk, but one that wasn’t so bad this time. Linhardt kissed his neck, and did as he asked. When it was all done, Linhardt busied himself with getting rid of the sullied blankets while Caspar went to pee. Linhardt looked at the dirtied blankets and sighed a bit. He wasn’t remotely upset about the birthday sex (far from it), but he missed having a few more blankets he could sleep under.

_ Well, _ he reasoned with himself,  _ Caspar is extremely warm anyway, so I guess that makes up for the blankets… _

As if summoned by his thoughts, Caspar returned, adjusting his shirt and trousers from when he hastily threw them on to leave.

“Change into pajamas,” Linhardt said. “I want to go back to sleep and I’d prefer you to be with me.”

“Right-o, I--” Caspar’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no!”

Linhardt wondered if he noticed the dirtied blankets and felt similarly.

“What?”

“The cake!”

“Oh. Right.”

Caspar picked the box up and peered inside. “Do you think the frosting’s gone all hard and gross?”

Linhardt looked at the pile of blankets on the floor and then back towards the bed. He knew it went against everything he had just thought about but his lover  _ was _ an excellent source of heat. They could risk the integrity of a  _ few _ more blankets.

“One way to find out,” he said. “Bring it to bed.”

Caspar frowned. “But we still don’t have forks.”

“That’s fine.”

It took him a moment but realization dawned on his face. “Alright, then.”

He waited for Caspar to get changed and then, cake and all, get in bed with him. Linhardt leaned against him and reached a finger into the box to swipe at some frosting. He dashed it through where the baker misspelled his name and held it out to Caspar. He may have forgotten it for a moment but, lying here (nearly) seven months free from the war, seven months free of nightmares, Linhardt felt like this was a fine birthday.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: smugsnail/smugsnailcos


End file.
